VerseDay 10-25-2018

What Was. . .
Hours fall silent in Autumn’s dappled shade
The undertone
Impending death
Swallowed in fiery grandeur.

Illusion of beauty
Laid waste by crackling footfall.

Wind torn branches
Stripped barren
Their cold black fingers
Silhouetted against the potential dawn
Where murderous flocks huddle
Waiting for light,

Warmth.

Never comprehending
Both are gone.

VerseDay 10-18-18

Today’s submission for The Beautiful Stuff’s VerseDay comes from Heather Hudson, of Aurora, Colorado. Heather is a writer, novelist, poet, and all-round amazing human. A warrior momma, and a black-cat whisperer.

Enjoy!

Marked

“I wish I could mark you the way you mark me.

A neon tattoo of warning or desire.

I wish, that when I touched you, they could see you also.

A bright neon sign that said

broken, shy or…dangerous.

I wish that our meetings could be recorded on your skin.

And others could see that you grope without asking

or that you have a tender true heart.

I wish we could mark you,

and then we would all know your virtues and your sins.

They would say prove it.

And you would roll up your sleeve

and your love or your violation

would be revealed.

No one would have to prove who you are. Everyone would see.”

Heather Hudson

VerseDay 10-11-18

Today your weekly dose of culture-building poetry comes from the talented Ben Brizell, a writer, poet and blogger. Check out his other work at: Benbrizwritings

 

Enjoy!

 

 

Further

Looking back through

all these memories;

ticket stubs,

scrawled notes,

stacks of poems,

leaves a painful taste.

All I can do is wonder

If it all really went that well.

I’m a cynic at heart,

which leaves a little room for bias.

 

 

Ben Brizell

VerseDay 9-27-18

Happy VerseDay! Beginning next week, I will be featuring some of the amazing stuff that you have been sending in. Until that time, please enjoy this triplicate of Haiku.

The feeble heart stroke

Little beats against her ribs

Sparrow trapped within.

Rush of blood to brain

Thoughts misplaced; edged with remorse

For words said, too late.

The trouble with love

Is the world in which it’s borne.

Death springs from context.

VerseDay 9-13-18

Here’s a thing….

 

Atomic Hit and Run

I am in need

to feel your atoms against mine.

Even though it is short lived and often

 

unintentional.

 

Because your matter on mine,

matters.

 

Gives my particles cause to spring up from apathy.

As if I shared your stardust once, so long ago.

As though we had a place in time long before this,

When oceans were gas, and metals made mountains

Comets careening off of placid moon-dusted plains.

 

Somewhere back there,

You careened into me

And my soul still remembers.

 

It drives my poor lizard brain to ache

just once more

Maybe I’m just looking for the particles you stole,

when you astral side-swiped me.

Like exchanging insurance numbers.

A slight streak of sanguine against metal.

Small token of our shared space.

 

It is miserable

and noble.

All at once.

Time is a boundless roundabout

And all exits bring me back.

 

I tell myself it is a finite dance

I can only spin so long,

Until the friction of physics halts my motion

And particles lay in defeat.

 

I have to tell myself it is finite.

I need to know it ends.

I need to know it ends.

VerseDay 9-5-18

Okay. So this is a weird one.

The picture alone is disturbing. Sometimes in life we stumble across things that are perfectly normal aspects of the natural world, but they affect our human emotions on strange levels. Mother Nature’s everyday can make us feel uneasy and strange. Maybe it’s our too-advanced brain reading depth where there is none. Notions of mortality and empathetic wondering.

 

In any case, I acknowledge that it’s strange, and a bit unnerving. But then again, so is life.

 

 

Evisceration

Yellow stripe teardrop burrows deep into her leafy green belly

Once so full of harvest and good planning.

The seeds to feed the hungry nesters

Spilled across the glass table top,

Like a cornucopia

A feast for jagged takers.

Did she feel much after the first piercing sting?

Was it just all black?

Or did she feel the tugging pull of her insides, turned out?

What if Katydid?

VerseDay 8-30-18

Happy VerseDay.

Today was darker, as some days can be.

Enjoy…or if you can’t enjoy it, sit with its awkwardness for a bit and don’t be afraid of the feelings you may catch. Part of our Beauty lies in those dark and painful corners.

I Belong

I am yours and I am theirs.

I am the scale’s and the mirror’s

I belong to the vogue airbrushing

And the PTO.

I am the tethered hawk,

Forgotten her wings.

Hungry to hunt,

No freedom with which to fly.

I am the man’s and the patriarchy’s

I am the lament of God

And the decent substitute,

When nothing better comes along.

I belong to so many,

Each a share of grief,

Each a pound of flesh

So many hyenas tearing at a picked over carcass

I am wasted and wanting,

Found without

I am the lukewarm spread, the mannequin arms,

The expected response and sweaty spectral.

I am the failure of my skin

The price of privilege

The stain of guilt.

For apples I did not eat.

I am the sunken boat,

long forgotten; a weathered splinter in the reeds,

I am the once useful, fading at dusk.

I belong to you.

And to them.

I am no more myself, than anyone else’s.

But oh the torture of knowing.

How different it could have been.

VerseDay 8-23-18

My darlings…This humble writer took a short break from her blog this week, but I will catch you on the beautiful flip side of life, next week on Wednesday. Also, look forward to a formal submission call for VerseDay, and all the fun rules and regulations that includes.

Until then, Enjoy a little VerseDay with your Thurs….day.

 

SHE

She came wailing

Screaming into the world on slippery tracks

Destined to set apart the befores from the afters.

She came pink-faced and angry

Perfect petals pouting tirades

Fingers tightly curled into tiny, life-lined palms

She came disgruntled

Protesting the cold and bright,

Raging against the metallic and sterile.

She came to show us, to shake us,

To remind us.

Life twists on, where we least expect.

And where we struggle to control and contain,

She always comes…just the same.

 

 

Verseday 8-9-18

Good evening! Today is about the terrible habit of looking behind, and being tethered to memory… and I also think I might have a hankering for fall.

Enjoy!

 

autumn autumn leaves blur close up
Photo by Vali S. on Pexels.com

Lie in Weight

 

Now the days of yielding past

And fallow fields in quiet repose

Beckon down dark geese in flight

 

The crackle of air settling cold

The dusty birth of Autumn spreads

Waits for coy light to brave horizon.

 

I am still and lingering.

Patient like the fading light

The callous bite of snows to come

And the bitter taste of wood smoke in lungs

 

I remember the hush frosted grass beneath feet

Like your breath on the apple of my cheek

Clear as the fading day and vibrant as fog on the moor

How I long to miss the memory

 

When will it burrow beneath ground

Settle somewhere in the dirt where you hide

Silently waiting.

For my dawdling to cease.

VerseDay 7-19-18

Good morning!

Here’s a little poetic sidetrack for your day.

Remember to send me your stuff and I’ll enter it into the running for The Beautiful Stuff’s poetry anthology due out Fall of 2019.

 

Not Ours

Count you now,

The minutes and hours of indiscretion against civility.

The innumerable times the heart wandered far into the woods

Captivated by the sounds and sights

Of a universe untouched

Count the ways

You failed to be the raging commercial machine

Felling the bounty of a sphere so generous

Count the ways you threw off the endless hunger

And returned to the beast that made you

The first beast, the wild.

Count it down

The moments we have left her

She fades against the nuclear brilliance of human greed.

Soon to be lost

Only remembered in poems and pictures

Of vagabond souls who understood their own hearts

Count you the ways we miscarried

Crowned champions of the self-destructive species award

Annihilating our gifts as toddlers in a tantrum

Always wanting more

Always seeking to control, to own

That

Which

Is

Not Ours.

It sickens the heart

It drops guilted weight onto the body and cannot be shed

The wrecked and torn pieces left those to come.

Count the beauty lost

The moments yet found

Ephemeral and far between

Fill your heart with them

Spur the fight.

Remember, you upright beast

Rabid and teeth-bearing

Mere genes shy from clamoring in trees

Defend your home.